Honey by Jenna Jameson Page B

searching for unique, not cookie-cutter, furnishings and pieces. Marc seriously doubted that person was Winterthur.
    Hoping he could sell her on the idea, he steered them over to an empty bench. Settling onto it, he shifted to face her. “I bought my place a few years ago. The building is early twentieth century and doesn’t have all that much in the way of amenities, but it gets great light and it still has most of the original features.”
    Her face lit. “I love prewar apartments. They have such great bones.”
    â€œYeah, well the problem with my place is that it’s so barebones . It still looks like I just moved in and with my work schedule—”
    â€œI’d love to help you redo it.”
    â€œYou would?” Could convincing her really be this easy?
    She nodded. “I’m no expert. Whatever I know is completely self-taught. But I do have a … friend with a background in interior design. He works in Manhattan as a window dresser for Ralph Lauren.”
    Until now, Marc hadn’t heard her mention having any friends of either gender. For a fleeting, not very self-flattering moment, he felt a twinge of actual jealousy. Tamping it down, he nodded. “Ralph Lauren, wow, that’s great.” To Marc, one designer was the same as another; still, the Ralph Lauren brand was so strong, even he knew the name.
    She nodded. “It really is. He has all sorts of imaginative ideas. Who knows, he might even lend us his employee discount. I’d have to ask him about that, of course.”
    â€œThat’d be great, but no pressure. I mean I don’t want to put anyone on the spot.” He hesitated. “When uh … do you think you might want to come by and, you know, have a look?”
    She hesitated. “I’ll have to check my … schedule. Can I let you know tomorrow?”
    By her schedule, what she meant was Drew’s. But it was what it was—for now.
    â€œSure,” Marc forced himself to answer. Pulling one of the croissants he’d bought earlier out from the white paper bag, he handed it to her.
    â€œYum, thank you,” she said, taking a big bite.
    For the next few minutes, they ate in companionable quiet. Feeling a drop on his nose, Marc looked up. Clouds were moving in, no doubt about it. “Looks like we’re getting rained on after all,” he observed.
    Honey sent him what he now recognized as her I told you so look but otherwise she refrained from rubbing it in. “The wind is picking up,” she said, reaching up to deal with the loosened hair lashing her face.
    Marc couldn’t resist. He reached over and tucked a thick caramel-colored lock behind the shell of her ear, his hand lingering on her jaw.
    â€œThanks,” she said, looking down—looking shy. “I should go back to wearing hats.”
    Marc dropped his hand. Drinking in the sweet silhouette of her downturned face, he felt a pang of real regret. Had he been too quick to jump to “just friends” as their only solution? Once Winterthur was out of the picture, and Marc hoped to God that wouldn’t be much longer, might it be time to revisit what he’d already come to think of as their relationship?
    â€œYou look great in hats, only maybe not the really big ones. They hide too much of your face.”
    â€œMaybe sometimes I like hiding.”
    Marc swallowed hard, his throat knotting. “You shouldn’t have to.”
    She looked up at him, smile fleeting, eyes not so much sad as … wistful. “What next?” she asked, changing the subject. “Or do you have to get back?”
    â€œI have some time.” Actually he had a thousand things on his plate—errands to run, cleaning chores to do (his apartment might as yet be no showplace but that didn’t mean it had to be filthy), groceries to buy—but none of them seemed anywhere near as important as spending this precious one-on-one